


the last snowfall (before spring)

by nicotinie



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hoodies, M/M, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Tension, Sharing Clothes, Smitten, Takes place after the party in episode three, lovebirds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 06:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotinie/pseuds/nicotinie
Summary: “Dude, what the–” Lucas starts, but doesn’t know whether he stops because Eliott starts talking again or because he’s about to lose his mind and his heart is beating way faster than normal and all of this is just stupid and why the fuck is Eliott taking his clothes off and–“Here,” Eliott says.Lucas registers: the way Eliott is handing him his black sweater, how he actually has another sweater under it and also a turtleneck under that, how he’s casual about it, how he seems to mean everything he does. How he moves his hand in the air, encouraging to take it.“It’s not necessary.”Or: they get away together from the party and Eliott lends Lucas his sweater.





	the last snowfall (before spring)

 

 

 

 **The Last Snowfall** **(Before Spring)**

 

 

 

 

One right after the other, Lucas registers three things. The first one: he’s drunk. He smells it on his clothes, tastes it under his tongue, swallows it down with every wave of saliva. His second awareness comes linked to that and has something do with the way he can’t maintain properly his centre of gravity and how he has a hard time putting one foot in front of the other.

The third awakening comes right after that and it takes a couple of seconds before loading in Lucas’s mind since it’s the biggest one. Since it hits him like a truck. Since Lucas catches it as it slips in between the crinkles of his sweater and Eliott’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. They feel warm against his milk-pale, cold skin.

In Lucas’ brain, something clicks, a whirlpool of scattered imagines falling into places behind his eyelids. The party, the music and the booze. Eliott’s shoulder brushing against Lucas when moving past him, Chloé’s lips against Lucas and Lucas’ gaze melting in Eliott’s.

Lucas stops in the middle of the street, yanking away from Eliott who runs and smiles meeting halfway with the chilly air of a Friday night, and frees himself from his grip.

In less than a second, Lucas regrets it. Not even a fraction of a second is required, before Eliott to realise it and stops as well.

He’s quick to turn around, his eyes quick to find him. Lucas stills on the sideway, breath laboured and arms stiff to his sides, when Eliott completely turns his body in his direction.

A couple of cars tear down the road, followed by two noisy horn honks and yet Lucas doesn’t hear a damn thing. He tries to blame it on the party, on his nausea clouding his senses, on how his bloodstream is altered, on the too-loud music is still playing at a maximum volume, in a corner of his mind – but those things aren’t to blame. Eliott smoothers back his flaxen hair, curls tangling around his bony fingers, and Lucas knows the cause of his detachment from reality is right there. He sees the truth hiding behind Eliott’s gaze, behind how carefully he’s looking at him, even with the corner of his mouth is slightly lifted upwards. Lucas wants Eliott to stop smiling. Lucas wants Eliott to smile forever. He wants to turn around and never have to look at him again. He wants to get closer and bury himself in Eliott’s arms. He wants to scream at him. He wants to softly ask him to untangle all this mess. His thoughts are so sharp, yet so inconsistent that they scare him, nailing him on the ground.

“What?” Eliott asks.

That one sound, Lucas hears. Still, he doesn’t dare to move, afraid if he takes a step forward and Eliott takes one too, these thoughts he’s trying to cage will eventually break out.

He studies Eliott for a moment too long for this whole thing not to look weird, but too short for Lucas not to feel like he’d die to have a chance to stare at Eliott without having him notice. The thought itself is so weird it creeps him out.

“Nothing,” he manages to croak out.

“Why did you stop? Don’t tell me you're tired. We ran for less than a couple of minutes.”

And it was enough for my skin to get burned. That much, Lucas doesn’t say. Instead: “I didn’t get tired. I just–” he stops. Eliott doesn’t move, just crosses his arms, huddling in his jacket and smiling of a smile Lucas has already learned to recognises. “I’m cold. The wind is getting on my nerves,” but there’s no wind and he’s the furthest thing from cold.

Eliott doesn’t seem too impressed. “Ah. It must be the alcohol. Or the temperature drop. Got pretty steamy in there, no?” he observes. This time, his grin turns into a proper smile and Lucas trips on the words and the way Eliott never, not even by mistake, takes his eyes off of him while saying that.

Fuck. Lucas didn’t imagine it. He kissed him even when it was Chloé’s body pressed against the palm of his hand. Eliott kissed him even if it was Lucille’s the waist he was grasping. They kissed. Eliott was there with him. He remembers it.

Just because his body is begging him to get closer to Eliott, Lucas takes a step back. He feels exposed, like Eliott doesn’t have a hard time seeing through each and every thought crossing Lucas’ mind. Eliott _can’t_ be having a hard time, not with the way he’s staring at him. Like he has him already figured out. Like he’s telling him to let go. Whatever is this thing that’s tugging at your chest and stealing the air out of your lungs, _let go_.

Lucas doesn’t know if he wants to groan in frustration or sob in relief. He’d drown in this feeling of comfort. Yet he’s choking in this reaction to vulnerability. He knows he is because when he answers, ignoring what Eliott just implied, his voice comes out in a half. “I’ll just take the bus.”

“This has nothing to do with the bus,” Eliott says. Lucas eyes snap up. A spurt of fear arises inside of him. What is he implying? Did his voice all of a sudden sound strange? Did Lucas misinterpret? Is he fucking things up? Is he acting weird. God, fuck. _Fuck_. Is he?

“What?” he asks. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe this is his chance to get the fuck away from this dude who’s been messing with his head since day one. Who stole his fucking snacks. It doesn’t matter if he basically bought it for him. He still stole it. He’s making things weird. He’s making Lucas look like a weird guy. Is he? _Fuck_.

But then, simply, Eliott says: “You underdress. No wonder you get cold,” and with that being said, Eliott starts walking towards him and closes the sidewalk’s distance that was dividing them. Lucas calculates that if he stretched out his arms just enough, he’d be able to touch his belly and his chest. The same way it came, the panic starts to dissolve, but it can't go away altogether. Not when Eliott reaches for the edges of his own black sweater and starts to tug it above his head, slipping out of it.

“Dude, what the–” Lucas starts, but doesn’t know whether he stops because Eliott starts talking again or because he’s about to lose his mind and his heart is beating way faster than normal and all of this is just stupid and why the fuck is Eliott taking his clothes off and–

“Here,” Eliott says.

Lucas registers: the way Eliott is handing him his black sweater, how he actually has another sweater under it and also a turtleneck under that, how he’s casual about it, how he seems to mean everything he does. How he moves his hand in the air, encouraging to take it.

“It’s not necessary.”

“You’d say wearing three shirts one above the other isn’t necessary, either, and yet. Take this.”

“I’ll just take the bus.”

Eliott blinks, then raises both of his eyebrows and lets out a soft, extended _Oh_. “I get it now. It’s the same thing that happened with the money and the beers. You find this weird. Don’t worry, it’s just a bro looking out for his dude. Nothing weird in that.”

Lucas hears a bit of mockery in that. He also hears shame. But more than anything, he feels the way he has to fight this smile that’s tugging at his lips from happening.

“You’re annoying,” Lucas says, then yanks away the sweater from Eliott’s hand.

“Good boy,” Eliott says. Then laughs. Lucas doesn’t know what to do with himself. He looks at him, half astonished, half angry. Everything about this is making him lose his mind. Eliott sounds both patronizing and lovable. And he’s not making any sense. And this sweater feels soft and Lucas is sure the alcohol must pretty much be all gone and yet he still finds himself wondering if Eliott skin is as soft, if it has a perfume. It probably does. And the sweater will probably be soaked with it. For _fuck’s_ sake.

“You’re not gonna wear it?”

Lucas blinks. “Yes,” he sounds robotic when he answers and hopes it’ll cover the thrill, the vague _arousal_ the idea of wearing this guy’s clothes is giving him. Lucas sighs, then slides it on his head in one go, just fiddles a bit in finding the end of the sleeves. He’s swimming in it. He loves the feeling and gets lost in it for a moment. When he inhales, though– Lucas knew this would’ve happened, but when it does it still takes him by surprise. The smell that hits him is strong. It has nothing to do with flowers, doesn’t smell like mint nor sugar. This smells like a bad cologne mixed with smoke and weed and it’s _masculine_ and Lucas is not going to have a boner because of a guy's fucking scent.

“Ah, is it too big? Maybe it is a bit too big.”

Maybe I don’t give a fuck. “A bit, yes,” he agrees. He’s tip-toeing around something he’d much rather dance on. Dance _with_. Eliott is still close – too close for Lucas’ own good – and remains silent, just looking at him. Lucas wishes he had the same power Eliott has. He’d steal the moon with his bare hand if that meant knowing what he’s thinking. Does he look ridiculous? Is that perhaps sweetness behind Eliott’s eyes?

Once again, Lucas feels both awkward when studied by him – his every nerve fired up, his stomach tied in knots – and completely smitten. He cuts all of this out when he starts feeling his legs go a little wobbly.

“’k, thanks,” Lucas says, looking away all of a sudden. “I’ll go and try to catch this fucking bus,” he mumbles, hating the rude inflexion his voice slips on. But Eliott has been staring. And that is impolite, and it’s weird, and Lucas is already having to fight with his own mind who’s begging him to bury his nose in the fabric of this fucking sweater to deal with social etiquettes and manners. He decides right there that it’s okay to be impolite. Eliott is lucky Lucas hasn’t stomped away from him.

He’s about to say bye when what happens next, happens.

Eliott reaches out for him with his right hand, adjusting the string dangling off from the hoodie. Even the way he pulls it inside the sweater is delicate. Then, ever so slowly, he lifts his gaze to find Lucas’.

It only takes this much for Lucas to be carried back to the dancefloor. It only takes this much from Eliott for Lucas to go back to kissing him even when his body is distant and they’re lips aren’t even remotely close. Eliott lets his hand travel from Lucas’ chest to his face, the space in between his thumb and index finger fitting exactly in the hollow of his jawline. He holds his face like that, turned upwards in his direction and for a while he stares at him, his gaze travelling here and there on his face.

If Lucas wanted, he could get away. Eliott is being gentle, his touch barely there but Lucas feels fire against his cheeks. He could get away if he wanted. He really, really, fucking could. He’s not sure he wants to. He’s not sure what’s happening, either, but secretly wishes for Eliott to be a little less of a coward than he is, a little more aware than he is.

Eliott doesn’t say anything, though. He just stretches his fingers in the direction of Lucas’ cheeks and brushes their tips against it. Once. Twice. Back and forth. Even his hands are imbued in his smell.

Lucas can’t do anything but stare at him, completely bewildered – and for a moment, even, he hopes for Eliott to dare going further. For his fingers to find his way to the bridge of Lucas’ nose, to the bow of his lips, to the tip of his tongue, to the curve of his neck.

“Look at you,” Eliott starts. “You’ve still got paint all over your face,” Eliott murmurs. Words usually break the spell for Lucas, but not this time. Eliott’s tone is low, his words wisely chosen, his eyes fixed everywhere but on the paint on Lucas’ cheeks. Lucas is sure he catches him looking at his lips, lingering there long enough for him to know Eliott is still playing with him.

“It's dried, though,” he points out and all of a sudden, he gets away. “That’s good, I wanted to check if you stained my sweater with it,” he smiles. Like none of this happened. Like he just didn’t suck out the soul out of Lucas’ lungs and body. Like he didn’t just make out with him just through the tips of his fingers. “You’re still sure you don't want to walk? The sweater is made out of plush fabric. You should be fine.”

No, I’m not. I’m not sure I don’t want to walk with you I’m not sure I want to take the bus I’m not sure about fucking anything right now the only thing I’m sure of is I’m quite sober so why hasn’t this urge of wanting to grab a fistful of your stupid fucking short hair and pin you against me and kiss you so hard we’ll have to steal each other’s air in order not to die gone away.

“Yeah. Yes. I–” Lucas stops. Looks away. “I’ll take the bus, yes.”

“Alright. Don’t catch a cold. I’ll see you...” pauses. Adds: “...dude,” then smiles softly and turns his back on him.

Lucas stares at his figure until Eliott turns right and disappears. Only then, Lucas allows himself to let out a winded breath. He goes through all that just happened. Them staring at each other during the party. Them running away from the party. Lucas freaking out. Lucas wearing a sweater that isn’t his. Lucas getting high off of a guy’s smell. Eliott’s smell. Eliott’s smile. Eliott’s fingers against his cheek. Eliott’s fingers against his cheeks Eliott’s fingers against his cheeks Eliott’s fingers against his cheek. _Eliott_.

“Fuck,” he curses, fists tight – and spring starts blooming on his cheeks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the chemistry. the dumbassery. come yell at me on twitter @ druckingdom


End file.
